The Lost Duke of Wyndham (21 page)

Jack sucked in his breath. “Another.”

She obeyed.

“Another.”

And again. And again, until she reached the one that lay between her breasts. He reached down then, his large hands slowly spreading the two sides of her gown open. It did not reveal her to him; she'd not unbuttoned enough for that. But she felt the cool air on her skin, felt the soft tickle of his breath as he leaned down to place one kiss on the flat plane of her chest.

“You are beautiful,” he whispered. And when his fingers moved this time to the buttons on her nightgown, he mastered them with no difficulty at all. He took her hand and gave it a gentle tug, indicating for her to sit up. She did, closing her eyes as the nightgown fell away.

With her vision dark, she
felt
more keenly, and the fabric—nothing but a plain, serviceable cotton—raised shivers of sensation as it slid along her skin.

Or maybe it was just that she knew he was looking at her.

Was this what it had felt like for that woman? The one in the painting? She must have been a woman of some experience by the time she'd posed for Monsieur Boucher, but surely there had to be a first time for her, as well. Had she, too, closed her eyes so she could
feel
a man's gaze upon her body?

She felt Jack's hand touching her face, the tips of his fingers softly trailing along the line of her neck to the hollow of her shoulder. He paused there, but only for a moment, and Grace sucked in her breath, waiting for the intimacy that awaited her.

“Why are your eyes closed?” he murmured.

“I don't know.”

“Are you afraid?”

“No.”

She waited. She gasped. She even jumped, just a little, when his fingers slid along the outer curve of her breast.

She felt herself arching. It was strange. She'd never thought about this, never even wondered what it might be like to have a man's hands stroking her in this way, but now that the moment was upon her, she knew exactly what she wanted him to do.

She wanted to feel him cupping her, holding her entirely in his palm.

She wanted to feel his hand brushing against her nipples.

She wanted him to touch her…dear God, she wanted him to touch her so badly, and it was spreading. It had moved from her breasts to her belly, to the hidden spot between her legs. She felt hot, and tingly, and searingly hungry.

Hungry…
there
.

It was without a doubt the strangest and most compelling sensation. She could not ignore it. She didn't
want
to ignore it. She wanted to feed it, indulge it, let him teach her how to quench it.

“Jack,” she moaned, and his hands moved until he was cradling both of her breasts. And then he kissed her.

Her eyes flew open.

His mouth was on her now, on the very tip, and she actually clasped one of her hands to her mouth, lest
she scream with the pleasure of it. She hadn't imagined…She'd thought she'd known what she wanted, but this…

She hadn't known.

She clutched at his head, using him for support. It was torture, and it was bliss, and she was barely able to breathe by the time he dragged his mouth back up to hers.

“Grace…Grace…” he murmured, over and over, his voice sliding into her skin. It felt as if he was kissing her everywhere, and maybe he was—one moment it was her mouth, and next her ear, and then her neck. And his hands—they were wicked. And relentless.

He never stopped moving, never stopped touching her. His hands were on her shoulders, and then her hips, and then one of them started sliding down her leg, tugging at her nightgown until it slipped off her entirely.

She should have been embarrassed. She should have felt awkward. But she didn't. Not with him. Not when he was gazing down at her with such love and devotion.

He loved her. He'd said he did, and she believed him, but now she felt it. The heat, the warmth. It shone from his eyes. And she understood now how a woman might find herself ruined. How could anyone resist this? How could she resist him?

He stood then, breathing hard, working at the fastenings of his breeches with frantic fingers. His chest was already bare, and all she could think was—
He's beautiful. How could a man be so beautiful?
He'd not led a life of leisure; this, she could see. His body was
lean and firm, his skin marred here and there with scars and calluses.

“Were you shot?” she asked, her eyes falling on a puckered scar on his upper arm.

He looked down, even as he pushed off his breeches. “A French sniper,” he confirmed. He smiled, rather lopsidedly. “I am fortunate he was not better at his craft.”

It should not have been so amusing. But the statement was so…
him
. So matter of fact, so understated and dry. She smiled in return. “I almost died, too.”

“Really?”

“Fever.”

He winced. “I hate fevers.”

She nodded, pinching the corners of her lips to keep from smiling. “I should hate to be shot.”

He looked back at her, his eyes alight with humor. “I don't recommend it.”

And then she did laugh, because it was all so ludicrous. He was standing there naked, for heaven's sake, clearly aroused, and they were discussing the relative unpleasantness of gunshot wounds and fevers.

He crawled onto the bed, looming over her with a predatory expression. “Grace?” he murmured.

She looked up at him and nearly melted. “Yes?”

He smiled wolfishly. “I'm all better now.”

And with that, there were no more words. When he kissed her this time, it was with an intensity and fervor that she knew would carry them through to completion. She felt it, too—this desire, this relentless need—and when he nudged his leg between hers, she opened
to him immediately, without reservation, without fear.

How long he kissed her, she couldn't possibly have known. It seemed like nothing. It seemed like forever. It felt like she had been born for this moment, with this man. As if somehow, on the day of her birth, this had all been preordained—on October the twenty-eighth, the year of our Lord 1819, she would be in Room 14 of the Queen's Arms Inn, and she would give herself to this man, John Augustus Cavendish-Audley.

Nothing else could possibly have happened. This was how it was meant to be.

She kissed him back with equal abandon, clutching at his shoulders, his arms, anywhere she could gain purchase. And then, just when she thought she could handle no more, his hand slipped between her legs. His touch was gentle, but still, she thought she might scream from the shock and wonder of it.

“Jack,” she gasped, not because she wanted him to stop, but because there was no way she could remain silent amidst the onslaught of sensation brought forth by that simple touch. He tickled and teased, and she panted and writhed. And then she realized that he was no longer just touching her, he was inside of her, his fingers exploring her in a manner so intimate it left her breathless.

She could feel herself clench around him, her muscles begging for more. She didn't know what to do, didn't know anything except that she wanted him. She wanted
him
, and something only he could give her.

He shifted position, and his fingers moved away.
His body lifted off hers, and when Grace looked up at him, he seemed to be straining against some irresistible force. He was holding himself above her, supporting himself on his forearms. Her tongue moved, preparing to say his name, but just then she felt him at her entrance, pressing gently forward.

Their eyes met.

“Shhh,” he murmured. “Just wait…I promise…”

“I'm not scared,” she whispered.

His mouth moved into a lopsided smile. “I am.”

She wanted to ask what he meant and why he was smiling, but he began to move forward, opening her, stretching her, and it was the strangest, most amazing thing, but he was
inside
of her. That one person could enter another seemed the most spectacular thing. They were joined. She could not think of any other way to describe it.

“Am I hurting you?” he whispered.

She shook her head. “I like it,” she whispered back.

He groaned at that, and thrust forward, the sudden motion sending a wave of sensation and pressure through her. She gasped his name and grabbed his shoulders, and then she found herself in an ancient rhythm, moving with him, as one. Moving, and pulsing, and straining, and then—

She shattered. She arched, she moaned, she nearly screamed. And when she finally came down and found the strength to breathe, she could not imagine how she could possibly still be alive. Surely a body could not feel that way and live to repeat it.

Then, abruptly, he pulled out of her and turned
away, grunting and groaning his own satisfaction. She touched his shoulder, feeling the spasms of his body. And when he cried out, she did not just hear it. She
felt
it, through his skin, through her body.

To her heart.

For a few moments he did not move, just lay there, his breathing slowly returning to normal. But then he rolled back over and gathered her into his arms. He whispered her name and kissed the top of her head.

And then he did it again.

And again.

And when she finally fell asleep, that was what she heard in her dreams. Jack's voice. Soft, whispering her name.

 

Jack knew the exact moment she fell asleep. He was not sure what it was—her breathing had already softened to a slow, even sigh, and her body had long since stilled.

But when she fell asleep, he knew.

He kissed her one last time, on her temple. And as he looked down at her peaceful face, he whispered, “I
will
marry you, Grace Eversleigh.”

It did not matter who he was. He would not let her go.

T
he drive to Butlersbridge was everything Jack remembered. The trees, the birds, the precise shade of green as the wind ruffled the grass…These were the sights and sounds of his childhood. Nothing had changed. It ought to have been comforting.

It wasn't.

When he opened his eyes that morning, Grace had already slipped from the bed and made her way back to her own room. He was disappointed, of course; he'd been awakened by his own love and desire for her, and wanted nothing more than to gather her back into his arms.

But he had understood. Life was not as free for a woman as for a man, even a woman of independent means. Grace had her reputation to consider. Thomas and Amelia would never say a word against her, but Jack did not know Lord Crowland well enough to
guess what he might do if Grace were caught in his bed. And as for the dowager…

Well, it went without saying that she'd happily destroy Grace now, if given the chance.

The traveling party—minus the dowager, to everyone's relief—met up in the inn's dining room for breakfast. Jack knew he'd been unable to keep his heart from his eyes when he saw Grace enter the room. Would it always be this way, he wondered. Would he see her and feel this indescribable, overwhelming rush of feeling?

It wasn't even desire. It was far more than that.

It was love.

Love. With a capital L and swirly script and hearts and flowers and whatever else the angels—and yes, all those annoying little cupids—wished to use for embellishment.

Love. It could be nothing else. He saw Grace and he felt joy. Not just his joy, but everyone's. The stranger seated behind him. The acquaintance across the room. He saw it all. He felt it all.

It was amazing. Humbling. Grace looked at him, and he was a better man.

And she thought he would allow anyone to keep them apart.

It would not happen. He would not let it happen.

Throughout breakfast she did not precisely avoid him—there were far too many shared glances and secret smiles for that. But she had been careful not to seek him out, and indeed, he'd not had an opportunity to speak with her even once. He probably wouldn't have been able to do so even if Grace was not so in
clined to be circumspect; Amelia slipped her hand in Grace's right after breakfast and did not let go.

Safety in numbers, Jack decided. The two ladies were stuck in the coach all day with the dowager. He would have been blindly reaching for a hand if forced to endure the same.

The three gentlemen rode on horseback, taking advantage of the fine weather. Lord Crowland decided to take a seat in the carriage after their first stop to water the horses, but thirty minutes later he was staggering back out, declaring the ride far less exhausting than the dowager.

“You would abandon your daughter to the dowager's venom?” Jack asked mildly.

Crowland did not even try to make excuses. “I did not say I was proud of myself.”

“The Outer Hebrides,” Thomas said, trotting by. “I'm telling you, Audley, it's the key to your happiness. The Outer Hebrides.”

“The Outer Hebrides?” Crowland echoed, looking from man to man for explanation.

“Almost as far as the Orkneys,” Thomas said cheerfully. “And much more fun to say.”

“Have you holdings there?” Crowland asked.

“Not yet,” Thomas replied. He looked over at Jack. “Perhaps you can restore a nunnery. Something with insurmountable walls.”

Jack found himself enjoying the mental picture. “How have you lived with her for so long?” he asked.

Thomas shook his head. “I have no idea.”

They were talking as if it were already decided, Jack realized. They were talking as if he had already
been named the duke. And Thomas did not seem to mind. If anything, he appeared to be looking forward to his imminent dispossession.

Jack looked back at the carriage. Grace had insisted that she could not marry him if he was the duke. And yet, he could not imagine doing it without her. He was unprepared for the duties that came with the title. Astoundingly so. But she knew what to do, didn't she? She'd lived at Belgrave for five years. She had to know how the place was run. She knew the name of every last servant, and as far as he could tell, their birthdays, too.

She was kind. She was gracious. She was innately fair, of impeccable judgment, and far more intelligent than he.

He could not imagine a more perfect duchess.

But he did not want to be the duke.

He truly didn't.

He'd gone over it in his mind countless times, reminding himself of all of the reasons why he'd make a very bad Duke of Wyndham, but had he ever actually come out and said it plainly?

He did not want to be the duke.

He looked over at Thomas, who was looking up at the sun, shading his eyes with his hand.

“It must be past noon,” Lord Crowland said. “Shall we stop for lunch?”

Jack shrugged. It did not matter to him.

“For the sake of the ladies,” Crowland said.

As one, they turned and looked over their shoulders toward the carriage.

Jack thought he saw Crowland cringe. “It's not pretty in there,” he said in a low voice.

Jack quirked a brow.

“The dowager,” Crowland said, shuddering. “Amelia begged me to let her ride after we watered the horses.”

“That would be too cruel to Grace,” Jack said.

“That's what I told Amelia.”

“As you were fleeing the carriage,” Thomas murmured, smiling just a little.

Crowland cocked his head. “I would never claim otherwise.”

“And I would never chastise you for it.”

Jack listened to the exchange with little interest. By his estimation, they were about halfway to Butlersbridge, and it was growing increasingly difficult to find humor in the inane. “There is a clearing a mile or so ahead,” he said. “I've stopped there before. It's suitable for a picnic.”

The two other men nodded their agreement, and about five minutes later they'd found the spot. Jack dismounted and went immediately to the carriage. A groom was helping the ladies down, but as Grace would be the last to alight, it was easy enough for him to position himself so he might take her hand when she emerged.

“Mr. Audley,” Grace said. She was nothing but polite, but her eyes shone with a secret warmth.

“Miss Eversleigh.” He looked down at her mouth. The corners were moving slightly…very slightly. She wanted to smile. He could see it.

He could feel it.

“I will eat in the carriage,” the dowager announced sharply. “Only heathens eat on the ground.”

Jack tapped his chest and grinned. “Proud to be a heathen.” He quirked his head toward Grace. “And you?”

“Very proud.”

The dowager marched once around the perimeter of the field—to stretch her legs, she said—and then disappeared back inside the carriage.

“That must have been very difficult for her,” Jack commented, watching her go.

Grace had been examining the contents of a picnic basket, but at that she looked up. “Difficult?”

“There is no one to harass in the carriage,” he explained.

“I think she feels that we have all ganged up upon her.”

“We have.”

Grace looked conflicted. “Yes, but—”

Oh…
no
. He was not going to listen to her make excuses for the dowager. “Don't tell me that you harbor any sympathy toward her.”

“No.” Grace shook her head. “I wouldn't say that, but—”

“You are far too softhearted.”

At that she smiled. Sheepishly. “Perhaps.”

Once the blankets were laid out, Jack maneuvered them so they were seated a bit apart from the others. It was not very difficult—or very obvious—to do so; Amelia had sat down next to her father, who appeared to be delivering some sort of lecture, and Thomas had wandered off, probably in search of a tree that needed watering.

“Is this the road you traveled when you went to school in Dublin?” Grace asked, reaching for a slice of bread and cheese.

“Yes.”

He'd tried to keep the tightness out of his voice, but he must not have succeeded, because when he looked at her, she was regarding him in that unsettling way of hers. “Why don't you want to go home?” she asked.

It was on the tip of his tongue to say that her imagination was too active, or, since he really ought to be reverting to form, something clever and grandiose, involving sunshine, twittering birds, and milk of human kindness.

Statements like that had got him out of far more delicate situations than this.

But he hadn't the energy just now, nor the will.

And, anyway, Grace knew better. She knew
him
better. He could be his usual flip and funny self, and most of the time—he hoped—she would love him for it. But not when he was trying to hide the truth.

Or hide
from
the truth.

“It's complicated,” he said, because at least that wasn't a lie.

She nodded and turned to her lunch. He waited for another question, but none were forthcoming. So he picked up an apple.

He looked over. She was cutting into a slice of roast chicken, her eyes on her utensils. He opened his mouth to speak, then decided not to, then brought the apple to his mouth.

Then didn't bite into it.

“It's been over five years,” he blurted out.

She looked up. “Since you've been home?”

He nodded.

“That's a long time.”

“Very long.”

“Too long?”

His fingers tightened around the apple. “No.”

She took a few bites of her meal, then looked up. “Would you like me to slice that apple for you?”

He handed it over, mostly because he'd forgotten he was holding it. “I had a cousin, you know.” Bloody hell, where had that come from? He hadn't meant to say anything about Arthur. He'd spent the last five years trying not to think about him, trying to make sure that Arthur's was not the last face he saw before he fell asleep at night.

“I thought you'd said you had three cousins,” Grace said. She wasn't looking at him; she gave every sign of giving her complete focus to the apple and knife in her hands.

“Only two now.”

She looked up, her eyes large with sympathy. “I am sorry.”

“Arthur died in France.” The words sounded rusty. He realized it had been a long time since he'd said Arthur's name aloud. Five years, probably.

“With you?” Grace asked softly.

He nodded.

She looked down at the apple slices, now neatly arranged on a plate. She didn't seem to know what to do with them.

“You're not going to say that it wasn't my fault?” he said, and he
hated
the sound of his voice. It was
hollow, and pained, and sarcastic, and desperate, and he couldn't believe what he'd just said.

“I wasn't there,” she said.

His eyes flew to her face.

“I can't imagine how it would have been your fault, but I wasn't there.” She reached across the food and laid her hand briefly atop his. “I'm sorry. Were you close?”

He nodded, turning away and pretending to look at the trees. “Not so much when we were young. But after we left for school…” He pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering how to explain just what Arthur had done for him. “…we found much more in common.”

Her fingers tightened around his, and then she let go. “It is difficult to lose someone you love.”

He looked back at her once he was satisfied that his eyes would remain dry. “When you lost your parents…”

“It was horrible,” she answered. Her lips moved at the corners, but not into a smile. It was one of those flashes of movement—a tiny, little rush of emotion, escaping almost without notice. “I didn't think I should die,” Grace said softly, “but I did not know how I would live.”

“I wish…” But he didn't know what he wished. That he could have been there for her? What good would he have been? Five years ago he'd been broken, too.

“The dowager saved me,” she said. She smiled wryly. “Isn't that funny?”

His brows rose. “Oh, come now. The dowager does nothing out of the goodness of her heart.”

“I did not say why she did it, just that she did. I should have been forced to marry my cousin if she had not taken me in.”

He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “I am glad you did not.”

“So am I,” she said, without any trace of tenderness. “He is awful.”

Jack chuckled. “And here I'd hoped you were relieved to have waited for me.”

She gave him an arch look and withdrew her hand. “You have not met my cousin.”

He finally took one of the apple pieces and bit into it. “We have an overabundance of odious relations, you and I.”

Her lips twisted in thought, and then her body twisted so that she could look back toward the carriage. “I should go to her,” she said.

“No, you shouldn't,” Jack said firmly.

Grace sighed. She did not want to feel sorry for the dowager, not after what the dowager had said to her the night before. But her conversation with Jack had brought back memories…and reminded her just how very much she was indebted to her.

She turned back to Jack. “She is all alone.”

“She deserves to be alone.” He said this with great conviction, and more than a touch of surprise, as if he could not believe the matter might be under discussion.

“No one deserves to be alone.”

“Do you really believe that?”

She didn't, but…“I want to believe it.”

He looked at her dubiously.

Grace started to rise. She looked this way and that, making sure no one could hear, and said, “You should not have been kissing my hand where people can see, anyway.”

She stood then, stepping quickly away, before he had a chance to make a reply.